


Cupboard Love

by Anonymous



Category: Sanctuary (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-13 06:34:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1216192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nikola and Helen vignette. He pleasures her. A conversation reverberates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cupboard Love

They never hug.

 

A simple, brown thought slips through the compendium. No more than the brush of his knuckles against the trim of her hips. No more than or a fallen wing in a field of winter grass, or a glist of light on fountain water, or a piano note all alone, but in this Lilliputian world where time repletes, the organ of her blood gels instantly.

 

_“Do you remember Istanbul?"_

 

Then glasses over. Nikola tastes the sugar rise in her blood. Maybe they never hug, but he knows, as he rolls her nerves between his teeth, that he is a functioning part of her red pulse. In the interstice, he anchors her hands where they splay and bruise across her own skin, and the same longing that leaves her throat wakes cold in his heart.

 

_“1927, well after the dissolution of the Ottoman Empire. All night, we ransacked the last vestiges of the Enderûn Library just before they moved them all"_

_"Such a promising trip. There's always some uninhibited facet of knowledge about abnormals in royal collections"_

_"And about vampires"_

 

A small parting noise ripens her ears, and Helen shrinks at the clasp. Then, one of recapture. Her wrists tense beneath his hand and she wants to close her legs, or stretch them wider, as he padlocks his mouth on the delta of flesh between them.

 

_"Do you remember that night? After our eyes got tired of reading"_

Even now, he lets her warmth convect in the caesura of his breath. Calls her out upon the waters, and when she meets his eyes, blue and incisive, across the finger length tracks of bites and kisses, she sees the phosphor of his thoughts; the limerence, like fire, trying to live without the tumult of wind. Windless, festering stars succeeded in such fire. And that's what he feels like--- the sufficient and untidy charm of starlight, lonely and desperately glistening.

 

_“The majesty of that place. I felt a history of downcast glances and rising eyes. I could see jeweled hands playing with fountain water, and hear the voices absorbed in the stone. For the first time, I felt the dread of outliving my friends and I realized you wanted me, all at the same time.”_

 

Tacitly, he stares back. The blueprints in his mind map the perfect hitch, like a spider silking a web. Then he yokes her wrists and profits with his tongue, and while each bright reset unveil a new flush on her face she wishes to heaven he would let them go. Until she cannot help but watch with thrill while his lower lip crests and collides with sync with his tongue, and cannot help but writhe when he pulls away and pulls her skin with him.

_“ Felt like royalty."_

_"How condescending."_

 

His eyes gleam and darken and his lashes roll shut. and after that, her focus drowns. She is at once made young and tethered and lost, nestled with soft, shared secrets and lingering temperament. His fingers. They crumpled her skin and she can feel them lose traction-- small, seductive mishaps that the feather age in her soul. This was Istanbul. This was the deep treasure of Ali Pasha once lost in throbs and blossoming swallows.

 

_"But more to the point, you're rarely this stigmatic.“_

 

There is something utterly Victorian in the way she reclaims her limbs. A dovetailed sadness that sleeps as the brightness stales and recedes. She closes her legs and pulls them away from him, and he knows from the past that she has lost her strength.

 

_“So what gives?"_

 

"Helen," his lips slip into her name, into the prying residue left by her voice. Her eyes drift like she watches smoke, and he scuds her knee with his fingertips, questioning whether he should slide under the slender hollow beneath to coax her closer, or drift down the lean track of her leg toward her ankles. She has watched him wrap coils for his inventions, and it is the same devotion.  

 

_"Don't like it when the tables are turned, do you?"_

 

He patrols the thoughts that scramble lucidly beneath her eyes, searching for the choosey flush that sometimes warms her irises beneath. And when he fails, she and winces at the electricity. The inward light. He sees the tumult, and he smiles at her fault, like thunderlight curtained in rain. Tilts his head to nuzzle her shoulder, then lips into a kiss (she tastes herself, and its guilty).

 

She knows he is starving. She traces his brow and sinks down, where they never hug. Where she draws the blinds and he holds her hands like festering stars. Their cupboard love.  

  
  


 


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